This is not titled Becoming a Father. Anyone with active sperm can become a father. The world is full of fathers who will never be a Dad.

I became a Dad five years after my first child was born, two years after my second. I was away from the family for months at a time because I was in the military, and I never bonded well initially with my daughters.

I tried to be a good father, but I always felt a bit awkward. It was six months after my first daughter's fifth birthday when I finally was transformed into a Dad. I was up on Christmas Eve, technically Christmas morning, one-thirty in the morning. I was sitting in my living room with a set of instructions written in Chinglish (english written by Chinese who made great engineers but poor translators). A partially-built bicycle was in front of me, and my wife was wrapping more presents that we had rushed out to purchase. As I was bolting on the front tire of the new bicycle for my oldest daughter, I came to realize that I had finally become a Dad. I was sitting up late at night, working on assembling something that was sure to make my daughter squeal with delight as soon as she would enter the living room. I could almost feel the excitement she would have, waiting until she could go ride her new bicycle. It was at that time I felt bonded with my two wonderful daughters. I was on shore duty at that time for the US Navy, teaching electronics. I was spending more and more time with my kids, and we had made up for a lot of lost time together.

Anyone can be a father, but I'm a Dad. It's a wonderful feeling.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was early morning, somewhere between 1 and 3 am. A work night. My three year old daughter had been plagued by ear infections that came on suddenly and often woke her from sleep vomiting.

My wife would try her hardest to take care of the mess and console her without waking me, but this was one of those nights when it was no use. I don't remember if my wife woke me or I awoke to all the commotion in the next room, but I became the middle-man. Getting towels to wipe off the mess. Cleaning the rug in front of her bed. Running back and forth to the bathroom for more water and cleaning supplies. Somewhere in the mix my wife ran off to fetch fresh bedding and I wound up alone with my daughter in her room.

She was trembling and nearly delirious from the combination of little sleep and all the vomiting.

"Are you OK?" I asked her.

"I think so" she responded.

I picked her up and sat her on my lap facing me. She immediately rested her head against my bare chest. As I sat there it occured to me that this is something that only a parent can understand. With virtually no sleep and heedless of the fact that I would need to be at work in a few hours I managed to be wide awake and totally focused on this little person.

I rubbed her back.

And then I knew it was going to happen.

Her tummy clenched up and she rocked backward a little. Uh-oh. Having no time to reach for a towel or call for my wife I knew I couldn't just put her down. I faced the inevitable.

By the time my wife made it back to her room - all that was left was the cleanup. We took turns wiping and cleaning and making sure she was able to get back to sleep.

I spent the next half-hour cleaning vomit out of my navel with a Q-Tip.

A baptism? Perhaps. But I knew one thing. I was a Dad.

Oh, everybody knows about the changing diapers and wiping vomit initiation rites--sad thing that it's even considered a big deal when men do it. (If men had to have babies, H. sapiens would have disappeared before mammoths.)

I recently ascended to the most ancient Dad of the Doyle clan. Guys, I have to warn you--cleaning poop out of your ear canal is child's play. Here's an abbreviated sampling of things my father failed to tell me. The unabridged version includes bile, bits of bone, fat globules, and flame. Perhaps other noders will share their wisdom.

• Sniffing the milk:

  Somewhere between milk that's udderly fresh and fine aged cheddar cheese, nature's near perfect food crosses a cauldron of trouble. Children learn early on that so much as opening a carton of spoiled milk causes violent retching.

  "Dad, will you sniff the milk, puhleez?"

  It's your duty. Your reputation rests on it. You, the man who ate the eye at a pig roast, who once skateboarded down Suicide Hill and lived to tell about it. (Well, the "tell" part's a stretch--concussions induce amnesia for a reason.) You who ate chocolate covered bees and fried silkworms. Are you ready for the challenge?

  I have survived this. May you benefit from my experience.

  First, check the expiration date--if it is in Roman numerals, toss.

  BEFORE OPENING THE MILK, gently shake it. If you feel solid blobs banging against the side, toss it. Unless one of the kids left it in the freezer overnight. Yes, these things happen.

  Next, sniff the container while still closed. If you're still conscious, proceed.

  Attempt to open the milk--if grey crust prevents you from doing this easily, toss it.

  Once the container is open, take a gentle whiff. Good milk emits a sweet, subtle, life-affirming aroma that warms the cockles. Unless you open the milk in the store, however, you're going to have to settle for something less than this. If you can suppress the gastric surge before it gets to mid-esophagus, the milk passes. Really. It's going on Froot Loops.

  I provided this service within the last 12 hours; my fledgling 21 year old daughter still finds me useful.

• Removing critters from the home:

  My personal list includes a couple of bats, a squirrel, a snake or two, a kingdom of mice, bees, wasps, flies, silverfish, a strange dog (don't ask), worms, and wiggly things that occasionally show up in the flour. In most homes most of these critters would have been squashed, but this is not one of them (at least, not consistently so).

  My advice here will be limited to capturing insects. Bats may be rabid, snakes may be poisonous, squirrels will, in fact, bite when cornered. Mice will return in a day or two--our surreptitious treks to the park with our rodent friends was little more than a mousy holiday for them. (If you look carefully, you can see their li'l mousy backpacks.)

  You will need a container of some sort--any sort. In a home with children, you will trip over containers hourly--until you need one. The sudden flight of useable containers foretells an unwanted visitor. In a pinch, you can use the Waterford crystal bowl--if it hasn't been broken yet. You will also need a reasonably stiff piece of paper--your diploma works well.

  Trap the flying buzzy thing against a flat surface. Better yet, against a flat clean surface--a pissed off hornet can easily slide out through the gap left by dried, year old gob of Hamburger Helper. (Yes, I know--we eat cows, we don't kill stinging bugs--if you are even questioning this, you have not been a parent for long.)

  Continue chasing the insect for the next 23 minutes. The children love this part...especially when you pretend that you caught the invader, then "accidentally" trip and toss the empty container towards your child. (A good mantra for fatherhood: even excellent health plans have high deductibles.) Trust me, this is not a good idea.

  Eventually your adversary will have had enough parts accidentally plucked off by your errant aim ("Look, Daddy, the leg is still wiggling") that you have a chance to get it. Once you have it trapped under the container, gently slide your diploma between the wall and the container, snagging the bug. Prepare yourself for the frantic banging of the bug against the container. Waterford ought to be strong enough. Unless it's a Jersey stinging drill wasp.

  Step outside the back door, toss everything out, and run! If you're a world class athlete, you just might close the door before the wasp flies back in. I'm not a world class athlete. The wasp, fairly exhausted by now, saves a bit of energy by clinging to my ear as I fly back in.

  True story: my son once complained to his mother that I ran back into the home when I disturbed an ornery carpenter bee, thus endangering everyone, when he thought it best that I stay outside.

  And for the record, just yesterday I had to catch two wild bream the children had put in our pond after an unsuccessful tadpole hunt, then sneak them back to the pond in Newark. When I put them back, they both swam to the muck on the shore--I was wrist deep in black mud fishing out the critters. Yes, I finally caught them (by hand) and flipped them into deeper water). My youngest is now 18 years old. It does not stop.

• Cleaning up coagulating blood:

  Kids bleed. A lot. Mostly when mothers are not around. (To be fair, mostly because of activities encouraged by Dads that only occur when the family's frontal lobe is gone.) So you are going to need swaths of cloth (ripping up the wedding gown is not cool, even if your eldest is exsanguinating before your eyes), and even more important, a Sense of Calm.

  First things first--locate source of bleeding. No, not the cut--first you must find the child. If she is screaming bloody murder, things are going to be mostly OK.

  Catch the child. Blood stains. It is evidence.Try to limit the evidence to 3 rooms.

  Once the child has been tackled, convince her that she is not bleeding to death. Take a few breaths. Now convince yourself she is not bleeding to death. While praying, it helps if you apply pressure directly over the wound. Resist the urge to peek every 15 seconds. All bleeding eventually stops.

  You must remove all the evidence before the mom returns. (Just tackle the stains, nothing else--if the home is cleaner than when she left, your wife will know an untoward event has occurred.)

  Start the tale of how scars and stitches are really cool. Do NOT promise her that the doctor will not shave "only a teeny, tiny part of her hair." Children have long, long memories.

  Do leave a note for your spouse--seeing blood stains and an empty home without a scribbled note will reduce any chances of future procreation.

  If the mouth is involved, do check for teeth.

  True story: I spent a few minutes raking a pool of blood with my fingers on a hockey rink looking for my daughter's tooth. We eventually realized she still had all of them in her mouth, though not in God's intended positions.

I have only touched on the litany of duties dadhood will entail. I'm on the other side looking back, but still sniffing milk and chasing critters.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

You can do this!